


perfect complements

by sirnando



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn, perhaps a bit ooc then, there is baking and gardening, this is happy and fluffy because i think that is nice for a change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirnando/pseuds/sirnando
Summary: Tommy Shelby moves into the house next to Alfie's on a Tuesday. Tommy is quiet, reserved, and Alfie decides it is his duty to take care of him.Alternatively, the one where Alfie bakes his way into Tommy's heart.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 54
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started as a tiny 'they were neighbors' drabble under my "put it into words" ficlet series, inspired by the word b'shirt. But writing it was so much fun and my thoughts consumed me, so I have expanded it into a longer ficlet and here it is. 
> 
> b’shirt // באשַערט (yiddish, n.) - “destiny”; referring to the seeking of a person who will complement you and whom you will complement perfectly

In truth, Alfie did not have to do much searching for his destiny, because Tommy Shelby moved into the home next to his on a Tuesday.

It had been previously occupied by an older couple—one that Alfie often tended to and shared evening teas with—but they had died and the house had been abandoned, eventually taken over by the bank. Alfie was left with a void in his schedule and a tear in his heart.

He had intended to introduce himself to the new neighbor more formally, perhaps bake a fresh loaf of bread to offer as a housewarming gift—Alfie was famous for his bread in circles of friends—but they ran into one another on the lawn one afternoon before he had the chance.

“Hi neighbor!” they were looking right at one another, standing on opposite sides of the sidewalk, but it seemed he’d still managed to startle him. The man walked over slowly. 

“I’m Alfie Solomons.” Alfie extended his arm out, the handshake was weak. 

“Tommy Shelby.” Tommy Shelby was quite lanky—only a bit of muscle hiding under his collared shirt. There were dark hollows under his eyes and a scar on his left cheek, but the cheekbones were incredibly defined. His eyes enchantingly blue. He was very pretty, in a very sad way. 

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood, I’m sure you’ll grow to love it.” He received a soft _ thank you  _ and an immediate  _ goodbye _ .

-

Tommy had not been wearing a ring on his finger, Alfie had noticed. There was only one car parked in the driveway and a single, potted plant sitting on his windowsill, the leaves wilted. Tommy lived alone. Alfie found a new neighbor to care for. 

He was apprehensive to accept the gifts at first—handfuls of peaches from the tree in Alfie’s backyard, steaming baskets of thick-crusted rolls—but he always did. Even began opening the door in advance, when he saw through his window that Alfie was coming over. 

It was slowly becoming a friendship, Alfie liked to think. The conversations were short and often vague, but they lasted incrementally longer. Tommy had started complimenting certain details of the food Alfie brought the few days before. Alfie even tugged half a smile out of Tommy with a joke about horse racing once—it was an interest, he learned, they both shared.

And really, if Alfie was being honest, baking and picking and cooking was much easier once he knew he could look at Tommy again.

-

It happened the Saturday morning that they were both outside. Tommy had left his home to pick up the mail, Alfie was on the sidewalk with a dish in his hand. This time it was blackberry cobbler—not his own blackberries, but he supposed Tommy would forgive him. 

“You know, I feel foolish not being able to reciprocate with any of my own recipes, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I tell you I’d burn my house down if I tried.” It was a full smile this time, the scent of sugary fruit lightening Tommy’s expression. 

Perhaps that was what made Alfie so giddy, but his head grew momentarily fuzzy and he grasped onto Tommy’s arm, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to be guilty, it keeps me occupied anyway.”

Tommy took a step back abruptly, stiffening. “I don’t like being touched much.” His eyes were apologetic. 

“Right, mate, yeah, of course.” Alfie sunk his hands deep into his pockets sheepishly. He’d overstepped an inappropriate boundary, clouds of red shrouding his forehead and cheeks. “Right, well..I hope the cobbler isn’t burnt.” and he hurried back home before Tommy could respond. 

-

Alfie did not bring anything over the following week, the thin stack of recipes that he had planned out on his kitchen counter laying untouched. Out of his own excitement and stupid, little crush, he had offended Tommy. Certain self-restraints had to be put in place.

It wasn’t a  _ torturous _ week per say, but it was lonely. Because Alfie had friends, yes, but they all lived on the other side of the country now. They’d moved into the city to pursue grand projects and prestigious jobs and they never visited, noses scrunched up at the thought of coming back to the  _ suburbs _ or the  _ countryside _ . And Alfie had been one of them once, even had a fancy job lined up with a firm in London, but he refused it. The old couple had absolutely no one left around here either—the thought of leaving them stranded was more haunting than having his friends move a few hours away. 

So he roamed around his garden, tended to the flowers and picked up fallen fruit from the grass. Scrubbed his windows and his shower walls, brewed pots of tea fit for 2 people and poured the extra down the drain. 

-

There was a soft knock at his door the following Saturday evening. Alfie considered taking a butter knife with him, because he never expected guests, but the area was safe.  _ Family-friendly _ is how they described it. He left the knife out on the counter just in case.

But it wasn’t a burglar on the other side, just Tommy Shelby with a bowl in his hands and an embarrassed smile on his lips. “It’s potato salad. I bought lettuce in the market before reading the recipe online, so I can make a real salad if you prefer. It’s not a lot, but it didn’t require me turning the stove on.”

“You didn’t boil the potatoes?”

“You’re supposed to boil them?” Horror flooded Tommy’s eyes.

And Alfie simply laughed, overwhelmed. “Do you want to come in? I’ve got enough tea for two.”

-

The potato salad was very crunchy, as was expected, but Alfie chewed through it slowly and kept assuring Tommy it was delicious.  _ Very innovative, keeps your palette interested _ , is how he really described it, hoping the exaggeration did not come off as insulting. 

Tommy stayed for nearly 3 hours. Alfie knew, because he kept glancing at the clock ticking behind Tommy’s head, scouring his brain for a new topic to bring up. Anything to make this last longer. 

But at around half past 7, as they were wrapping up a polite debate on whether the sound of rain was soothing—Alfie was opposed, Tommy slept most peacefully those nights—Tommy checked his watch and rose from his chair. “I should get going, it’s getting late.” The sun had only just begun to set behind the clouds, but Alfie kept his mouth shut and hands tightly against his sides. He had learned to tread carefully. 

Tommy reached over to collect the rest of the potato salad, but Alfie stopped him. “Leave it, I’ll finish it up and return the dish afterwards.” The food would be scattered on the other side of his home, left for the squirrels to scavenge, but he omitted that detail. Tommy nodded only once, making no eye contact, and turned to leave.

Outside on the porch, he angled his shoulders slightly, still not meeting Alfie’s eyes, mumbling, “The cobbler was the best I’ve had, by the way.” He stepped into the shadows and that was that. 

Alfie shut his door tightly and leaned up against it, a bit of warmth blooming in his chest.  _ The cobbler _ . Tommy had referenced the incident—cryptically, but nevertheless. But why? To indicate he forgave him? To suggest he didn’t mind it after all? To apologize for not warning Alfie about his aversion beforehand?

The most appropriate explanation for it all was that Tommy had simply wanted to compliment Alfie’s baking—an innocent, meaningless comment. So maybe it was nothing.

But perhaps it  _ was _ something. 

Alfie had forgotten how consuming crushes could be. 

-

Tommy did not use the lettuce to make a salad, but Alfie resumed his own routine. 

The following Saturday, it was an apple strudel. This particular fall had nurtured the apples in his garden to a perfect crispness—Alfie’s own mouth watered on the walk over. 

Tommy had planted some tulips on the small stretch of dirt he had in front of his porch—red, yellow and pink heads lined up irregularly. He’d buried them much too close to the surface. Some roots were visible above the soil and a few of the flowers had begun to tip over, petals brushing against the milkweeds.

Tommy greeted Alfie with a smile this time, dressed in a plain undershirt and hair still disheveled from sleep, eyes squinting into the light. It was nearly 1 in the afternoon. Then again, it was the weekend, though Alfie had never understood the sense in wasting a day by staying in bed.

“You know, your tulips will live longer if you uproot all of the weeds.” Alfie gestured behind him. 

“Oh, really?” the surprise in his voice masked some of the grogginess left over. In any other situation Alfie would have been agitated with someone so out of touch with these pieces of information, but Tommy’s genuine bewilderment towards the simple mechanics of life was endearing.

The sunlight was highlighting a faint dusting of freckles over Tommy’s nose, his eyes sparkling.  _ Have those always been there? _ Alfie had clearly been wrong about his figure, because the short sleeves revealed the muscle wrapped around his upper arms, a square of exposed skin right above his pant line, where the shirt had untucked itself….

Alfie blinked sharply, hoping that would dissolve the shock in his own expression. But he forgot to respond to the question and Tommy shifted from one leg to the other.

“Would you like a piece?” The question snapped Alfie back into the moment. 

“A piece?” A piece of what? He had made sure to not dwell on the skin for too long—on any spot, for that matter. He had been moving his eyes from one place to another every 5 seconds, to reduce the amount of suspicion and—

“The cake.” Tommy looked down to Alfie’s hands.  _ The cake _ . The fucking strudel that was suddenly searing his palms and fingers. 

“Oh, right. Yes—I’d love a piece.” He did not attempt to hide his eagerness that time.

-

To put it simply, the space they walked into was the complete opposite of Alfie’s cluttered home. The bank had clearly renovated before selling it off—all of the walls were the color of eggshells, wooden boards now covering the floors, replacing the shag carpets Alfie had been quite fond of. There was one, black loveseat in the living room standing atop some kind of brown woven rug and a small stereo system. In the middle of it all lay a mattress, blankets still crumpled up in a pile. Nearly two months had passed since Tommy had moved in, but it looked more like two days. Though there didn’t seem to be much more to unpack anyway—as if Tommy had fit his whole life into the four cardboard boxes stacked up in the corner.

The only bit of character inside was a photo mounted above the fold out table in the kitchen. A beach, white sand and flocking seagulls, reeds bent over by the wind. Only when looked at up close was the tiny boat on the water visible.

“It’s a picture from Margate, down in the south, by the sea. My family used to own a summer home out there.” Tommy explained when he noticed Alfie inspecting it. Alfie knew Margate, his parents had done the same when he was younger.

Tommy’s hands shook slightly as he sliced into the pastry—using the only knife he had hidden in the drawer—but Alfie pretended not to notice and studied the paint chipping along the hinges of his cabinets. They were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, something other than the overwhelming white swallowing them whole. A lot of elements needed to be freshened up, really—to bring some  _ life _ into this home. 

Though, the simplicity of the decor was oddly fitting for Tommy—very pretty, in a very sad way. 

-

Their conversation mirrored the one they had at Alfie’s, apart from the fact that Tommy was sat on the floor. He only had one chair—unsurprisingly—and insisted his guest take it. Hauling over the armchair would be needlessly complicated, he said, the floor was perfectly fine. 

So they talked, Alfie’s head angled slightly downwards—an ache forming at the back of his neck—and Tommy’s slightly upwards—the same ache developing, for a different reason. 

_ They were friends now _ , Alfie remarked to himself,  _ this was what friends did _ . Tommy was not very talkative, but that suited Alfie perfectly fine because he always had a list of his observations and theories slotted away to be used for moments like this. And Tommy seemed to enjoy it, even snorted in laughter when Alfie retold his baking origin stories—flour in his eyes, his mother’s screams in his ear and, somehow, batter between his toes.

“Everything she made was delicious, didn’t matter how disgusting it sounded or looked. I think part of it is because she always dressed for the occasion—makeup on, fingernails painted, large hoops hanging from her ears. I think the food appreciated that.” Alfie had never said that aloud. It sounded awfully childish when released into the air. 

“Is that why you wear those?” Tommy pointed to the rings on Alfie’s fingers, all but two decorated with some type of golden band. 

Alfie chuckled softly, examining them as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Yeah, I suppose that’s why I wear them.”

They brewed in the silence for a bit, Alfie still surveying his hands. “Well, I can assure you they’re working.” 

Tommy’s smile was confident, but the embarrassment in his eyes betrayed him. They’d both finished eating, Alfie took that as his cue to leave.

He had slipped his shoes back on, facing Tommy in the doorway, when Tommy reached out and patted his shoulder lightly, awkwardly. “Thank you, Alfie.” he looked to him as if searching for some approval— _ Did I do that right? _

“You’re welcome, Tommy.” Alfie did not reciprocate the touching— _ baby steps,  _ he thought to himself—but the feeling fizzled against his skin until the next morning.


	2. chapter 2

Tommy had gotten divorced the year before, the papers making it official arrived a week after he had moved into this new house. 

He did not elaborate on who it was, only said that they were the one to make the decision. “Claimed I was too cold—too distant and emotionless. Being with me was more of a challenge than a pleasure.” His tone was nonchalant throughout it all—whether that was because of genuine indifference or a refusal to reveal his pain was unclear.

They were sitting on Alfie’s back porch, sipping on warm apple cider and listening to the crickets sing. The complaints Tommy’s ex had were understandable. He was reserved and his scarce enthusiasm could be interpreted as rude, but the silence was misleading, Alfie had learned. Tommy simply expressed his appreciation in tiny spurts—you had to know what to look for. 

Eye contact was the most common. He would stare straight into Alfie’s eyes when he spoke, nodding along with the rhythm of his words, entirely expressionless. It was robotic, seemed like he had tuned out somewhere in the middle of the third sentence. Yet Alfie knew that was not the case, because Tommy filed all of the information away carefully, referencing it in different situations. Or sometimes he would take a day or two to digest before returning to the topic, prompting it with “You know, I’ve been dwelling on what you said…”

Another month had passed and their relationship blossomed further—Tommy now prepared a teapot every Saturday morning in anticipation of Alfie’s visit. He’d been shopping for an extra chair, a few more plates and some utensils—everything necessary to make their little routine as comfortable as possible. He bought precisely what he needed, never in excess. 

It took a batch of shortbread cookies, a carrot cake and 3 sourdough loaves—Tommy very much liked those—for him to finally ask Alfie to help him haul the mattress up to what would become his room. 

_ Patience _ —that was the main requirement for a bond with Tommy and Alfie was brimming with it.

-

The task was more taxing than they had anticipated, but when they had finally succeeded in rolling the mattress over onto the bed frame, Tommy dusted off his jeans and said, “I want to plant a garden. Some flower beds or…..or vegetables.” He was directing his words to the floor, which, Alfie presumed, were supposed to deflect onto him. 

It was mid-November, the morning air was growing frostier with each day—hardly the time to start planting anything, but Alfie scanned the room. It was just as plain and gloomy as the rest of the house. A winter in this setting would be horribly somber. 

“You could start with some house plants, until the seasons turn again. But you’ll need more shelves or stands—places to put them. Curtains to regulate the light, depending on the kind you buy.” he would have continued, these were necessary details, but Tommy was staring at him now, eyes growing wider with each word. 

“Ah...right.” he kicked one of the metal legs gently. “It was a stupid idea anyway.”

“I can help you, I’ve done it all before.” It slipped out before Alfie had enough time to evaluate whether that would overstep another boundary, but Tommy had replied with his  _ Ok _ before he had time to overthink that as well. 

-

They visited one of the smaller flower shops in town. Alfie was a regular, knew all of the workers by name, but it took this trip with Tommy and the chorus of  _ Alfie _ ’s in the entrance—all from elderly women—for him to realize how long it had been since he’d spent a considerable amount of time with someone closer to his own age. 

Tommy was particularly drawn to the succulents, brushing their stems with the pad of his thumb. He chose two large, bowl-like pots of assorted kinds—mini gardens, one of which had a ceramic gnome poised in the corner, right next to his mushroom hut. 

“I thought it’d be nice….to have someone else around—you know?” he explained it sheepishly, catching Alfie staring at the figurine, his voice hitching at the end. 

But Alfie wasn’t judging, he was simply fitting this piece of information into the Tommy puzzle. 

“I think you’re right.” and he assumed his smile was successfully reassuring, because the strain in Tommy’s jaw vanished.

-

Alfie made the rest of the suggestions. A few varieties of orchid, one blooming peace lily, a sword fern growing in a hanging pot, and some African violets—for  _ some _ color. 

Tommy did not refuse any of the choices, instead lined them up in neat rows within their cart and made the occasional “Hm...yes.”

A watering can was added to the purchase—because, just as the food liked when the cook was dressed up, Tommy reasoned flowers would appreciate not being watered with some chipped mug he’d abandoned in the back of his cupboard.

And Alfie, suddenly choking on the sentiment, for once had nothing more to say.

-

It had started to drizzle lightly by the time they returned. They’d taken Tommy’s car, engine now idling in the driveway. 

“The shelves and things will be easy to find, just buy whatever furniture you think will fit best for your vision.” This single shopping trip was enough. Alfie didn’t want to overindulge in their time together.

He turned the door handle, but a hand on his upper arm stopped him. Tommy jerked it away quickly once Alfie had turned back. His mouth was open. Then closed. Open again.

“Um...what if we—I mean I—” closed again. He blinked rapidly, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.  _ So incredibly pretty. _

The raindrops had grown heavier, sky darkening around them. He opted for “I’ll let you know once it’s ready,” instead.

It played out much less romantically than the thousand and one scenarios that Alfie managed to fabricate in the span of that minute. Tommy sounded defeated. Or disappointed. Perhaps a combination of the two. 

But Alfie only nodded his agreement, rather than grieving on the lost opportunity, and escaped before his own mixture of reactions could manifest themselves on his face—and  _ other  _ places.

He dreamt of meadows and butterfly lashes that night. 

-

The setup was ready the following week, when Alfie arrived on the doorstep with a plate of coconut custard, in the shape of a mini dome. “Something new for a change,” he shrugged, hoping inwardly that it would be an omen for other things.

Tommy had done quite a lot of work, his plants now decorating the newly arranged stands in his living and bedroom. The fern hung from the ceiling at the end of the kitchen, one of the violets soaking in the sunlight on a windowsill. 

“And the gnome garden?” It would be the centerpiece of his coffee table, Tommy explained. A simple black one, still packaged.

A bit out of place, Alfie thought, but Tommy was glowing with pride so he agreed it was the perfect location for it.

The home, in general, was still quite drab, but visibly happier with the greens and purples and yellows vibrant against the white walls.  _ Tommy _ was visibly happier—the creases in his forehead had smoothened out a bit, his skin no longer a sickly pale. 

It was good. Nice, even, to see the smiles reach his eyes more often. 

_ Nice _ was of course an understatement, but Alfie had to restrict his choice in adjectives to resist the overwhelming urge to hug him. 

-

The flowers had created another visible change: Tommy talked more. Still less when compared to an average person, but he asked questions and appeared on Alfie’s front porch unannounced. 

They were all regarding the plants—he’d grown very preoccupied with their well-being and, inexperienced as he was, kept requesting that Alfie come over and check on their condition. 

He was tending to them well—much better than the flower Alfie remembered in the front window the first day. Perhaps a leaf or two had browned slightly, but nobody could avoid that. Though Tommy kept returning with the same set of worries, questions rephrased, and Alfie addressed them gladly. 

This continued for around two weeks before Alfie began to struggle with balancing the visits with his own work. So he developed a system, terrified that if he mentioned the difficulties, Tommy would retreat entirely. 

When they’d been moving the mattress, he noticed a window at the end of Tommy’s hallway upstairs—within clear view of and identical to the one on the side of Alfie’s home. 

“Write your questions here and I’ll respond as soon as I see them.” He gave Tommy a stack of white papers and a thick, blue marker—the assortment of things Tommy owned and did not was entirely random. Alfie could spare a few sheets.

Tommy accepted the idea with what could have bordered on excitement.

-

There was a question waiting for him, taped to the glass, virtually every day.

_ One of the orchid heads has fallen off….what now? _

_ The grey succulent—you know, the spiral one, beside the gnome—I think it’s gotten greyer. Is that even possible? _

_ Can I keep the violets over the heating vents? They look a bit cold.  _

The first snow had fallen, third week into December. Alfie wrote out the NO in big, block letters to emphasize his message, then added the  _ (you can knit some pot warmers) _ underneath, beside himself. 

A few hours later, a new paper awaited him.  _ I have no idea how to knit—can I buy them online? _

Sarcasm—that was the one thing Alfie forgot Tommy had difficulty grasping.

-

_ I don’t think this will come as a surprise, but I don’t really have anywhere to go for Christmas this year either. If you make the fruitcake, I can provide the tea and music (:  _

Alfie had mentioned that he spent his holidays alone—seeing as he was an only child and both his parents had died—but it had been in passing, he refused to dwell.  _ Tommy Shelby, always listening. _

He read and reread the words, letting each one soak into his memory, chest tightening each time he reached the smiley.

_ Walnuts or no walnuts? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> submitting to the terrifying notion that this may be like,,, drastically ooc BUT oh well; hope you like it nevertheless and let me know what you think xx


	3. chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> christmas in this au is not intended to imply any different religious affiliations - i use it as a symbol and opportunity to come together and express appreciation/exchange gifts

Tommy remade the potato salad—potatoes cooked. Though  _ over _ cooked, this time around, so that they dissolved into a mush of starch and mayonnaise when they hit Alfie’s tongue, but then again, it was bound to turn into that form at some point. Saved Alfie the labor of chewing, is how he spun it when Tommy eyed him from across the table. A silly justification, but Tommy did not object.

The Christmas feast was more of a snack, really. Tommy had tried with the salad, served it alongside some frozen peas and cubed carrots. There were charred chicken breasts at the bottom of his trash bin, concealed by the vegetable wrappers, but he refused to admit to those. One failure was enough, though after Alfie’s comment about the potatoes, Tommy  _ was  _ a bit curious how he would excuse something entirely inedible. 

The only other thing that was on the table were their glasses filled with cranberry juice, a Santa-shaped candle holder and Alfie’s fruitcake. He’d baked it with extra walnuts—an hour before their agreed time—the middle still warm when they bit in. The candle holder was brought over from his house as well—one of the many decorations on display there. 

Tommy had delivered on the music, just as he’d promised. One of the items among his odd blend of belongings was an old record player, paired with a box of Christmas records. His grandpa’s, he explained. Though the truth was that Tommy simply  _ liked _ Christmas and everything related to it—he had bought the set on sale at some antique store, a long time ago. Lying about it meant that he could avoid the exhausting explanation of why someone like him could be caught humming along to  _ Jingle Bells _ , something everyone always demanded upon finding out. 

With the music, an unlit candle in the middle, and the crumbs of what used to be cake on their plates,  _ quaint _ , is how Tommy described the scene before him—as opposed to the  _ pitiful _ he would’ve used just a few months ago.

Perhaps people could be thawed after all. 

-

It began snowing somewhere in between dinner and dessert, the flakes dusting the grass and trees outside.

They were washing dishes at the sink, their night coming to a close. Alfie had used the typical  _ It’s getting late _ line, half-hoping a Christmas miracle would occur and Tommy would insist on him staying. But he didn’t, so Alfie forced the miracle into existence by offering to help clean the tiny mess they’d made.

Alfie was standing beside Tommy, drying the plates, their shoulders only a few inches apart, and he wished it was draftier in here—so that he could blame leaning into Tommy on a sudden gust of wind. Though the air was painfully still, and the task ended quickly.

The only miracle which occurred was Alfie finding the present he had for Tommy hidden under his jacket, as he dressed to leave. He’d forgotten about it, excitement expanding behind his ribs.

“Ah, right—Merry Christmas, Tommy Shelby.” Alfie admitted it was a challenge to choose a gift for someone who did not want to be unwrapped, but Alfie had been taking note of the bits of interests and characteristics that sprouted out of Tommy when they were together. He hoped they had not misled him.

It was a jar, filled with alternating layers of sand and seashells, encased in seawater. A little piece of Margate. Alfie had a whole collection of them—it was a hobby, of sorts, that he began after learning that the family would be selling their summer home soon. He created them using materials scavenged from around the property, because he was particularly fond of that town—nostalgic for the childhood bliss. And considering Tommy was constantly fussing over straightening the picture frame, it seemed he was fond of it too. 

Tommy took it from Alfie apprehensively, surveying it in his hands.   


“I don’t have anything to offer.” He meant it gift-wise, though the phrasing came out ambiguous, and he did not correct himself. Any interpretation was acceptable, really—Tommy had nothing to offer. Red splotches began blooming on his cheeks. Tommy was cold, and he was emotionless, and he was distant, too selfish to consider that perhaps, buying something for a man who had been showering him with gifts for months would be an appropriate idea. And now he was giving him another one, Tommy once again empty-handed.

This had happened before—he perpetually shivered within a white wasteland, but he would refuse to extinguish Alfie’s warmth with his own chilled existence.

“I wasn’t expecting anything in return.” Alfie explained, hand idling in the space between them. 

“I can’t.”

“But—”

“Understand that I can’t.” and he handed back the jar, careful to not accidentally brush Alfie’s fingers.

And that was that.

He turned his attention to the table, pretending to busy himself with the hem of the tablecloth and did not look up until he heard the click of the door shutting behind Alfie.

_ Pitiful _ . The word had just been hiding beneath Tommy’s lie.

-

Uncertainty was a concept that Alfie had difficulty with. Ironic, considering the person he had been aching for since late September was the embodiment of that, along with a bundle of other  _ unknowns _ .

Contact had broken off after that interaction. No window messages, no knocks on his door. He could have even pretended that the house beside his was vacant once again if it weren’t for the gift still lying on his counter, taunting Alfie for his own stupidity. 

He spent New Year’s Eve on the couch—counting down the seconds in his head as people danced on the TV screen—and took a single sip of champagne,  _ just in case _ . For good measure. To avoid another layer of regret from piling onto the current heap pinning him down. 

-

It only took about 3 days into the new year before Alfie developed his resolution—he would continue to bake for Tommy.

He had seen the inside of Tommy’s refrigerator and tasted his cooking on multiple occasions, so it would be inhumane to deprive him of the only good food he had access to. That was, at least, how Alfie justified his own desperation. 

New recipes, that was the alternate explanation—the one he would turn to if ever prompted. He’d been rummaging around in the basement, storing away the holiday decor, when he came across a forgotten box of recipes his mother had given him. The last one in the set.

They were sorted by name— _ bagels, biscuits, breads, buns _ —and Alfie decided he would bake alphabetically, eventually exhausting the list. All 30 variations. 

And then, if Tommy had still not made any contact—because that was the underlying purpose of this plan, Alfie admitted to himself— _ then _ Alfie would stop. Entirely.

A month should be enough for him to finally accept the expiration of their friendship.

-

Alfie made and remade the first 5 recipes, never fully satisfied with how they tasted. He rolled, sliced, sprinkled and mixed, writing down his exact movements on a scrap of floury paper, hoping that it would somehow solve the issue, but he was still unsatisfied with every result.

It was because they were new recipes—needing to practice was natural—but he did not have that time and worried that serving Tommy something that tasted  _ wrong _ would offend him even further.

He packaged the products of his baking tightly on disposable plates, bowls and sheets. There was no need to make Tommy feel obligated to return the ceramic dishes, and aluminum would hold in the heat well enough until Tommy found them on his doormat.

Which Tommy did find them, judging by the disappearance of the silver packages. Alfie successfully forbade himself from checking the giant trash cans outside of Tommy’s garage.

-

On the 6th day, Alfie realized he had not baked in something other than his pajamas in this new year yet.

The recipes were perfect from day 7, onwards.

-

If you squinted hard enough and ignored certain details, this little cycle of indirect give-and-take was basically the same thing as the routine they had before. You had to squint  _ very _ hard, but Alfie did so gladly.

Tommy never responded, but purely out of habit, Alfie checked the empty window at the end of the hall every day.

So it was fair to say that his heart fluttered when he realized that there was now a white blob in it.

_ I think I’m going to do some renovations. _

Day 20.

-

On Day 21, Alfie responded to the message. His immediate reaction the day before was to rush next door and ask in person—before inviting himself in onto the project—but a few deep breaths and some peppermint tea to settle his excitement produced this decision. 

_ What kind of renovations? _

On day 22, he received a response. 

_ Some painting. Maybe some furniture. Some decorations. _ It was as descriptive as Tommy tended to get. Alfie smiled to himself.

He waited until day 23 to write back—even if this did turn out to be the tail-end of their relationship after all, there was at least one outstanding benefit that Alfie had reaped from it: more patience.

_ Very nice. Some bright colors will complement the flowers nicely.  _ He stayed up the night leading into day 24.

-

Across the stretch of grass and behind the glass, Tommy tossed around in his own bed. 

He had extended the olive branch—he had done this intentionally, partially tormented into doing so by the scene from Christmas rattling inside of his head. 

Tommy Shelby was used to loneliness. He had pushed and been pushed away by enough people to eventually grow indifferent to being alone. Though in none of the other situations was anyone so persistent in continuing to  _ care _ , however small the gestures might be.

Knowing Alfie, he had conjured up some reason for why he was still baking—probably something about it being ‘inhumane’ to deprive Tommy of good cooking. It was  _ nice _ of him to do so, Tommy thought, but the food turned sour in his mouth without Alfie’s commentary as a side-dish.

Therefore, the renovation was a cluster of a few things: a legitimate goal, a weak apology, and a cryptic excuse to re-ignite their friendship. Because in 23-plus days, Tommy had learned that he preferred to be alone, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had other plans for this chapter, i suppose. but then i thought "what's a cold and distant tommy without a little panic towards the idea of being cared for the way he is?" so here it is. probably means this will be a bit longer than i initially planned, but we shall see. also i promise i will stop torturing you with the slow-burn soon. xx


	4. chapter 4

It took an unnecessary amount of effort, but Tommy hauled the two paint cans he’d bought all the way from his car to Alfie’s door on day 27, a paintbrush wedged between his teeth.

He had not explicitly asked Alfie to help him yet—the back of his neck broke out into a sweat whenever he thought about it—so this was the direction he decided on. 

Alfie opened up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Oh,” the scene wasn’t so much a surprise as was the fact that Tommy was awake at this hour. A part of Alfie had been awaiting the visit. They’d exchanged a few more messages, but he wanted to leave Tommy the space to show up—glad his reasoning had held true.

“Eye dint nof—ff bl—ck on—” Alfie plucked the brush from Tommy’s mouth. “I—I couldn’t choose between the—” he looked at the can label on his right, “the  _ elephant gray _ or the—the  _ burlap tan _ .”

-

Alfie had suggested they discuss the colors over some morning tea and biscuits, to come to a consensus on something that was not in the  _ neutrals  _ category. 

Tommy sketched out his vision on a scrap piece of paper—details pertaining to where he’d place his new bookshelves, the mini globe he’d purchased at the corner store, and his statuette of a black Frisian. 

“Do you think striped lamp shades will match this palette?” He’d read up a bit on interior design online. Everyone seemed to be saying that stripes were very outdated, but he’d bought them beforehand—final sale. 

“Yes, it’ll work.” Stripes were a very versatile pattern, Alfie explained, it was easy to slot them into any environment. He would later learn that the ones Tommy had chosen were quite hideous—navy with some kind of green—but he resolved the problem by suggesting that they looked best in the furthest corner of the room.

It was a productive morning overall. Tommy decided he was satisfied with the plan before the clock had reached 11. “Well, I think I’ll start tomorrow then.” he looked to Alfie, folding the paper and slipping it into his pocket.

“Alright.” Alfie nodded. Tommy nodded back. Alfie nodded again. “I mean I could he—”

“Would you want to he—”

Their sentences ran into one another, a small laugh escaping Tommy. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” 

On his way out, Tommy picked up the jar of sand and shells that hadn’t moved from Alfie’s table since Christmas. He smiled to himself, then turned to Alfie with an expression that suggested he’d just been caught stealing. “I think it’ll look nice on my nightstand,” he clarified sheepishly, and Alfie simply bit his lip.

-

Rather than Alfie leave after their Saturday meetings, they would now devour the food, slurp down their drinks and continue on the renovations. With two pairs of hands painting, wrenching and drilling, the work was accomplished fairly quickly. But with each room they finished, Tommy found something new to adjust—he’d grown very fond of the whole process. They hopped from place to place, readjusting frames and  _ hmphing _ together over artistic choices. Tommy, as it turned out, was actually quite picky.

All decorations had to be arranged in a certain way, positioned perfectly so that they matched the setting of the angle you were looking at them from—whatever that possibly meant. Tables had to stand exactly in the center of the rugs beneath them, books lined in alphabetical order and they were to use 3 layers of paint—no more, no less. When Alfie asked Tommy where he’d acquired all of this knowledge about aesthetics, it turned out that ‘a bit’ of reading on interior design had in fact been countless, sleepless nights of eyes glued to a screen describing the importance of ‘balanced heights in a compact space.’

“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” Tommy had dug himself into a hole, he realized, desperately trying to climb back out, “it’s supposed to cleanse your soul.” he winced—quite possibly the least convincing thing he could have said. But Alfie nodded along enthusiastically, trying to calm the panic swimming around in Tommy’s eyes. “Then I might just try leaving my curtains only two-thirds of the way open as well.”

The living room had become a pale shade of yellow, mimicking the sunshine—for the plants, Tommy reasoned. Both bathrooms were now a powder blue, Tommy’s room a blend of pastel greens. Only the walls in the kitchen were allowed to adopt the  _ elephant gray _ . 

Color popped everywhere—clearly a home now, rather than some dreary enclosure.

“A bit overwhelming,” Tommy remarked, stepping back from the last patch of white he’d finished covering. “In a good way, though” he reassured, noticing that a few droplets of paint had splattered across the bridge of Alfie’s nose. He swiped them away with his finger, wiping the rest off onto a rag.

Alfie stiffened.  _ Physical _ contact, from  _ Tommy _ Shelby. 

He should’ve proposed renovations sooner.

-

It was a short winter that year. By mid-February the snow had all but disappeared and the wind blew warmly in the afternoons. 

“You could probably start drafting your garden soon, if you’re still planning on doing that.” Alfie paused his hammering to wipe a few beads of sweat off his forehead. “Still too early to plant, though.”

Tommy was squatted beside him, studying the instruction manual for a new kitchen table. “Hm? Oh, right, the garden.” he switched his attention to Alfie. “I’d still like to, yes, but there’s only grass out there.” he gestured towards the sliding doors leading into the backyard. 

“It’s only a matter of plowing, Tommy. I’ve got all the tools.”

“Right, of course.” but the embarrassment he felt for not realizing it was  _ just a matter of plowing _ was outweighed by relief for the fact that he wouldn’t have to nag Alfie for help on another thing—the offer was hanging in the air between them, waiting to be snatched up.

-

Tommy wanted to explore Alfie’s garden for ideas—as someone foreign to the activity, he wasn’t entirely sure what he could grow, though he knew bananas and pineapples were clearly out of the question.

They walked through the rows of dirt, Alfie pointing to imaginary patches of zucchinis, carrots, and cucumbers. Labels from last year's crop still stuck out of the ground, slowly withering away. The flower beds had their own special space, a few meters away from the vegetables. Alfie listed off fancy names of plants too quickly for Tommy to make any sense of the words, but Alfie was glowing, hands gesturing animatedly. It would be too cruel to interrupt—Tommy could ask for clarification at another time.

His mind drifted off when they reached the invisible pagonies—or maybe they were peonies—becoming engrossed with Alfie’s body language instead.

Alfie appreciated the tiny details of life. Tommy finally succeeded in pinpointing the reason he was so drawn to him, because it was quite the opposite of Tommy’s own tendencies. Alfie celebrated the green of a leaf, the crunch of a bread’s crust, a funnily shaped cloud—and it was a soothing form of love. It was the type of love Tommy wanted.

-

“So, have you found anything you like?”

They were standing beneath Alfie’s magnolia. It hadn’t started to bloom yet, but the buds were swelling and the pink flowers would emerge soon. Tommy ran his finger along one of the branches, looking around at their surroundings. He caught Alfie’s eyes and smiled softly. “Yeah—yeah I think I have.”

“Well, make sure to note them down somewhere when you get back home. We can shop for seeds later, I can even dig up some of the bulbs I have here to transfer them over to you.” Tommy was staring at him oddly, fixated on some point on Alfie’s forehead, his pupils dilated. “Tommy….mate.” It was a bit unsettling. Alfie started racking his brain for an explanation—wasn’t sudden speechlessness the sign of a stroke?

“I don’t really like touching, Alfie.” Tommy finally spoke, wringing his hands. 

Alfie nodded along, though still thoroughly confused. He wasn’t touching Tommy, they were standing a few inches apart and he hadn’t made any movements suggesting he planned on it.  “I know you don’t, Tommy.”

“Right,” he idled for a moment longer, bit his lip, sucked in a breath and leaned in.

Alfie initially thought that it was a headbutt, or that he was fainting—anything but the fact that Tommy was kissing him.

They were  _ kissing _ , Tommy’s lips pressed against his, tongue teasing at the corners of his mouth. He could hear Tommy’s breaths deepening, his own eyelids quivering. He opened his eyes once, quickly, to make sure it was real, and dove back in. The birds had started chirping louder.  _ Cheering us on _ , Alfie thought, and reached up to cup Tommy’s cheek. 

_ Touch _ , the word still rang an alarm in his head. He jerked it away quickly—hoping the decision hadn’t shattered the moment, but Tommy continued kissing, patted around Alfie’s waist to find his wrist and brought the hand back up to his face, his own slipping behind Alfie’s neck to pull him in closer, chests pressed against one another.

It was Alfie who broke it off first, forced to gasp for air, though his hand remained in the same spot, thumb rubbing against Tommy’s cheekbone, his lips slightly puffy and eyes sparkling.

‘So,” Tommy brushed Alfie’s hair back, “did you kiss the old folks like that too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit shorter this time, so sorry for that , but i have finally stopped the torture - thank you for enduring it <3 also, i've ended up extending this story as you can see, because the ideas keep popping up, so i hope you enjoy it (,: the next chapter will! be! fluffy!

**Author's Note:**

> as always, hope you liked it and let me know what you think !! xx


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